


my hand, your hand, tied up like two ships

by indoorbird



Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: Drabble, F/M, Post-Divorce, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:20:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22330216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indoorbird/pseuds/indoorbird
Summary: Haha this could never happen....Unless?
Relationships: Jennifer Aniston/Brad Pitt
Comments: 4
Kudos: 44





	my hand, your hand, tied up like two ships

It was a nice thing. After all this time and so many little statues, Jen wasn't humble enough to not feel a little tickle of pleasure as she watched the engraver put the name her mother gave her beneath the turquoise Actor. The one at home just said Ensemble; this one was just for her. She was proud of her work, happy this came from fellow actors and artists, and she thought she got to be a little proud. 

“You're fantastic,” a deep Midwestern voice said, “On the show. Well-earned.” 

“I didn't know you watched TV,” she said to Brad. She had wondered if he would try to find her again after their run-in on the carpet. 

“I got the screener,” he said, “You're a hurricane.” 

“Well, you were pretty good yourself,” she said, tracing the outline of his statue with her manicured finger, “That speech was fun. I'm sure you've got a lot of fans on Tinder all by yourself.” 

He laughed, “My apologies for the…”

“No, no, it was funny,” she said, waving a hand, “Us Weekly already made the joke a hundred times anyway.” 

He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “I don't want to sound paranoid, but I think they have a plant in the wait staff.”

She had gotten pretty paranoid after the past two decades of constant tabloid attention. Except for work and these social engagements, she stayed at home. Even now she was thinking of taking off these shoes and putting her feet on the couch, where no one would stare at her but the dogs. 

“If you're crazy, I'm crazy. Maybe we made each other crazy,” she said. 

He fixed his eyes on her, big sad eyes that he used to reserve for sad animal stories and her after the fights stopped and they didn't have anything left to scream, “Jen, I didn't mean to…”

“Oh no! I wasn't saying- no, no, I mean, I know I'm like, blegh, but it was just a joke. I mean we never hated each other. Not really.”

“I remember some words in Tahoe.”

Goddamn Tahoe. 

“Even then. Not really,” she said, patting his arm like old pals. 

Finally he smiled again, “No, not really.”

She looked at her statue. The engraver hadn't even started on her last name. Most actors just left the statue and came back, like leaving your order at the deli counter. But it was too odd to just leave now.

“Takes a bit,” he said, “But you never know when the next one will be. I try to be Zen about these things.” 

“Been a while for me,” she said, “I think I mentioned that a few too many times in the speech. Did I sound bitter?” 

“No, no, it was perfect. I liked the tape recorder bit.”

“It wasn't until I was saying it I realized how few people I've told that anecdote to.”

“I think you told me that two weeks after we met.”

She'd embarrassed herself a hundred times in those two weeks, for the whole of her youth really, over-sharing and postulating like she had nothing to lose by giving herself away to anyone who walked through. She hadn't thought that way about it then, but she was old enough now to be embarrassed by much of her youth yet not old enough to laugh about it all. 

“You excited to get the big one?” she said, her tone now impersonal, “Everyone says you will.” 

“Well, after such a fortunate career, it's all just icing,” he said in his perfect PR voice. 

“That's bullshit. You want it,” she said. He laughed. 

“I need to find a date,” he said, “I don't want to win and be the sad old divorced guy, drunk at Vanity Fair.” 

She rolled her eyes, “If you think you look sad or old, you're delusional. You're a man, you don't get old, you just get distinguished. Then you get Lifetime Achievement Awards.” 

He laughed. The engraver gently moved the trophy into Jen’s eyeline to politely show she had finished and they could leave. 

“All done,” Jen said and she thanked the engraver. She and Brad looked at each other, waiting for one to break this off. 

Brad stepped up. 

“Well, I should probably go apologize to Quentin about the feet thing. I think he'll laugh. See you at the next one?”

“It's a date,” she said. 

They hugged, awkwardly maneuvering with their trophies between them. She turned to to find anyone else to talk to, but pat his chest with her hand like she used to do when he was leaving for the airport or she had just returned from a night out and he met her at the front door. She kept turning, but his hand came over hers, stroking her thumb with his before letting her go. She didn't turn back, didn't look at him, just walked on. Eventually she was a bit aways, could feel people's eyes on her, eager to approach. She took one hand off the statue and touched the skin he'd held. 

_ No, better not _ .


End file.
